


Flakes of Amber

by Anonymous



Category: A3! (Video Game)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-06
Updated: 2018-10-06
Packaged: 2019-07-25 22:39:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16207130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Tsuzuru contemplates the concepts of simplicity, frugality, and moderation.





	Flakes of Amber

**Author's Note:**

> Note: There is a part that could be taken as implied Sakyo/Izumi.

Sakyo eats the way he lives: with simplicity, frugality, and moderation. Too much moderation, sometimes, even for the strict boundaries that Tsuzuru sees him apply to himself constantly. There are moments where he inhales his food with the desperation of a man who hasn’t eaten for a week, and looks around after as if daring the table to critique him. His portion sizes are carefully curated, no larger than any other troupe member’s, but when they have izakaya-style nights he could grill chicken skewers solely by the heat in his gaze. There are a number of ways Tsuzuru could describe that look – greedy, avid, ravenous – but he tucks all those words inside his mind and puts slightly larger pieces of meat on Sakyo’s skewers instead. It’s a habit of his, looking out for that expression; he has seen it countless times on the faces of his younger brothers. He wasn’t always able to satisfy them with the supply of food they had, but he always noticed.

If there are virtues that Tsuzuru possesses in greater quantities compared to the average person, his family would probably say that they include things like attentiveness, generosity, and consideration. These aren’t labels that Tsuzuru would necessarily claim ownership of himself, but it doesn’t feel bad being associated with them. He’d like to cultivate them properly, if possible.

Masumi calls him meddlesome, and perhaps that term is closer to the truth. Nobody asks Tszuru to pay attention, least of all Sakyo, who packs himself up tightly so he can present himself in the way that supports the company best. Still, he can’t help watching Sakyo whip the company into order with a fist far softer than the iron it first appears as. He finds himself itching to write; he doesn’t know what yet, but he thinks that when he’s done, he’d like to show it to Sakyo first, this time.

 

*

 

Their taste in stories is tainted by the same terrible fondness for B-rated movies; Tsuzuru wonders on occasion whether this could have a negative impact on the quality of their theatre’s scripts, but Mizuno writes him effusive fan letters after every performance, and End Links does actually send him an offer in writing, so Tsuzuru allows himself to believe that maybe there’s a reason B-rated movies become classics. Sakyo doesn’t hold back when Tsuzuru comes up with a plot that strays slightly too close to ham and cheese, so Tsuzuru is able to hit back at some of Sakyo’s more outdated suggestions too. There are points they’ll never agree on, of course, like the ending of the Sharknado movies, and whether Mitsuko’s unrequited love in _Summer’s End_ was tragic or pitiful, but when they even when Sakyo tears down his ideas it feels like they are working together to build something for this company that gave them both a chance.

He finds that he rather likes building things with Sakyo.

He likes joining the drinking nights with Sakyo too, though Tsuzuru is often too tired to stay for long. They make for a nice change of pace, with Azuma softening the tones of the conversation and Omi hovering over in support. Sakyo, too, seems to unravel under the spell of the evening and the promise of good wine; his sentences slur together at the ends and his words betray a hint of carelessness that he would find unforgiveable while sober. The idle chatter of the mah-jong table spawns hundreds of half-formed plots in his clouded mind, dramatic confrontations that begin with a declaration of war and arrest midway when arch-enemy Yukishiro offers to let Kazunari sleep with him as consolation for losing the battle.

More than anything, Tsuzuru likes the rare occasions Sakyo drifts into sleep on the sofa before the night is over. Sometimes Omi offers to carry him; sometimes the job is left to Tsuzuru. Azuma always smiles knowingly when it’s the latter; he drapes a thin blanket over Sakyo and entrusts him to Tsuzuru with all the air of a father giving away his child at a wedding. It makes Tsuzuru blush furiously, but his protests are silenced when Sakyo’s head lulls back onto his chest, his soft hair brushing Tsuzuru’s arm, and Tsuzuru finds he has no blood left in him anymore. He’s giddy and lightheaded instead, heart racing at the thought of Sakyo waking up in his arms. Thankfully, Tsuzuru knows from experience that Sakyo is out for the night once he falls asleep like this, and so he allows his arms to tighten around Sakyo just a fraction more than necessary as he lifts him up and takes him down the hallway back to his room.

 

*

 

Naturally, there are consequences of watching too closely. They hit him hard when he sees Sakyo bending down to discuss a collaboration offer with the Director, who looks up with no recognition of the spark burning in his eyes.

Tsuzuru knows that look. He’s been watching, after all.

Simplicity, frugality, and moderation. How simple is it, Tsuzuru wonders, to stay in love for years without a goal? How frugal is it to throw yourself aboard a sinking ship in the hopes that you will be able to make it sail again? What sort of moderation would cause a person to set themselves ablaze when they have no assurance of salvation?

There’s a common theme in literature and life: love makes people crazy. Sakyo lives true to his teachings, but for all that he seeks self-control he is as much slave to his heart as any other person. His love for acting strengthens his resolve; his love for the Director strengthens his courage. Tsuzuru thinks he could write epics about the flame glimmering behind Sakyo’s glasses as he tracks the Director with his eyes.

A selfish thought, unbidden: he doesn’t want to.

 

*

 

As happens so often in these sorts of stories, he is his own undoing. It’s a slip of the tongue that gives him away, an impassioned admission that he knows more than he should, and finally Tsuzuru himself is the target of that scorching look.

 “You’re used to watching,” Sakyo says, with dawning understanding. His gaze never leaves Tsuzuru’s face, and Tsuzuru feels his cheeks burn under the heat of it. “I was, too. I thought I’d never get to stand on the stage; I thought I didn’t have the right to claim it as my own.”

Sakyo doesn’t know what he looks like on stage. He has one view, of course, honed into sharp focus by countless replays, but he can’t see himself as Tsuzuru does.

Even as he grips the collars of his troupe to pull them higher, he threatens to crush them underfoot. It is a familiar feeling to Tsuzuru; not even regular practice with Sakuya is enough to shield him from the pressure that Sakuya emits at times. Sakyo gives off the same impression when he is on stage. _I am here_ , he announces, purely with his stride. With a single word, he could swallow up the entire stage; with a single scene, he would run away with the show.

By the same token, Tsuzuru can’t assess his own scripts with the impartiality of an observer. He’s heard feedback, of course; he’s heard lectures so long he could write another script before their end – but he wonders now what his words look like to Sakyo.

“What I’m saying,” Sakyo says, still with that hungry, all-consuming gaze, “is that I was wrong.”

“What?”

Sakyo sighs. This, too, is a familiar sound. He steps forward and grips Tsuzuru’s chin. “You’re not a spectator anymore. Aren’t you an actor?”

Simplicity, frugality, moderation. Maybe love is that simple after all.

Tsuzuru acts.


End file.
